A week later, Leo knocked on my door. He looked different — less guarded, his shoulders level.
“Dad said I could ask you about first aid,” he said, shifting his weight. “Since you’ve seen the real thing. He said… he said you might have some insights.”
I invited him in.
A week later, Leo knocked on my door.
We didn’t talk about being heroes. We talked about the basics: how to keep your hands steady when someone else is losing their mind, and how to breathe through the adrenaline.
Sometimes, I’d see David waving from across the street while he worked in the yard. He wasn’t disapproving anymore; he just looked like a man who was finally learning to listen to the silence.
One night, before I turned in, I glanced out my window.
Sometimes, I’d see David waving from across the street.
The light in Leo’s room flickered.
I sat down and watched.
THANK. YOU.
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I reached over and flicked my lamp once.
Message received.
I climbed under the covers and fell asleep with a smile on my face.
It felt good to know I was making a difference again.
I reached over and flicked my lamp once.
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